"Did you hear who it was, Joe?"

"Well! I heerd as it were a person what
sent the person what giv' you the bank-notes at
the Jolly Bargemen, Pip."

"So it was."

"Astonishing!" said Joe, in the placidest
way.

"Did you hear that he was dead, Joe?" I
presently asked, with increasing diffidence.

"Which? Him as sent the bank-notes,
Pip?"

"Yes."

"I think," said Joe, after meditating a long
time, and looking rather evasively at the window-
seat, "as I did near tell that how he were
something or another in a general way in that
direction."

"Did you hear anything of his circumstances,
Joe?"

"Not partickler, Pip."

"If you would like to hear, Joe——" I was
beginning, when Joe got up and came to my
sofa.

"Lookee here, old chap," said Joe, bending
over me. "Ever the best of friends; ain't us,
Pip ?"

I was ashamed to answer him.

"Wery good, then," said Joe, as if I had
answered; "that's all right; that's agreed upon.
Then why go into subjects, old chap, which
as betwixt two sech must be for ever onnecessary?
There's subjects enough as betwixt two
sech, without onnecessary ones. Lord! To
think of your poor sister and her Rampages!
And don't you remember Tickler?"

"I do indeed, Joe."

"Lookee here, old chap," said Joe. "I done
what I could to keep you and Tickler in sunders,
but my power were not always fully equal to
my inclinations. For when your poor sister had
a mind to drop into you, it were not so much,"
said Joe, in his favourite argumentative way,
"that she dropped into me too, if I put myself
in opposition to her, but that she dropped into
you always heavier for it. I noticed that. It
ain't a grab at a man's whisker, nor yet a shake
or two of a man (to which your sister was quite
welcome), that 'ud put a man off from getting a
litile child out of punishment. But when that
little child is dropped into, heavier, for that grab
of whisker or shaking, then that man naterally
up and says to himself, 'Where is the good as
you are a doing? I grant you I see the 'arm,'
says the man, 'but I don't see the good. I call
upon you, sir, theerfore, to pint out the good.'"

"The man says?" I observed, as Joe waited
for me to speak.

"The man says," Joe assented. "Is he right,
that man?"

"Dear Joe, he is always right."

"Well, old chap," said Joe, "then abide by
your words. If he's always right (which in
general he's more likely wrong), he's right when
he says this:—Supposing ever you kep any
little matter to yourself when you was a little
child, you kep it mostly because you know'd
as J. Gargery's power to part you and Tickler in
sunders, were not fully equal to his inclinations.
Theerfore, think no more of it as betwixt two
sech, and do not let us pass remarks upon
onnecessary subjects. Biddy giv' herself a deal
o' trouble with me afore I left (for I am most
awful dull), as I should view it in this light,
and, viewing it in this light, as I shouldser
put it. Both of which," said Joe, quite charmed
with his logical arrangement, "being done, now
this to you a true friend, say. Namely. You
mustn't go a over-doing on it, but you must
have your supper and your wine-and-water, and
you must be put betwixt the sheets."

The delicacy with which Joe dismissed this
theme, and the sweet tact and kindness with
which Biddy—who with her woman's wit had
found me out so soon—had prepared him for it,
made a deep impression on my mind. But
whether Joe knew how poor I was, and how my
great expectations had all dissolved, like our
own marsh mists before the sun, I could not
understand.

Another thing in Joe that I could not understand
when it first began to develop itself, but
which I soon arrived at a sorrowful comprehension
of, was this: As I became stronger and
better, Joe became a little less easy with me.
In my weakness and entire dependence on him,
the dear fellow had fallen into the old tone, and
called me by the old names, the dear "old Pip,
old chap," that now were music in my ears. I
too had fallen into the old ways, only happy and
thankful that he let me. But, imperceptibly,
though I held by them fast, Joe's hold upon
them began to slacken; and whereas I wondered
at this, at first, I soon began to understand that
the cause of it was in me, and that the fault of
it was all mine.

Ah! Had I given Joe no reason to doubt
my constancy, and to think that in prosperity I
should grow cold to him and cast him off? Had
I given Joe's innocent heart no cause to feel
instinctively that as I got stronger, his hold upon
me would be weaker, and that he had better
loosen it in time and let me go, before I plucked
myself away?

It was on the third or fourth occasion of my
going out walking in the Temple Gardens leaning
on Joe's arm, that I saw this change in him
very plainly. We had been sitting in the bright
warm sunlight, looking at the river, and I chanced
to say as we got up:

"See, Joe! I can walk quite strongly. Now,
you shall see me walk back by myself."

"Which do not over-do it, Pip," said Joe;
"but I shall be happy for to see you able, sir."

The last word grated on me; yet how could
I remonstrate! I walked no further than the
gate of the gardens, and then pretended to be
weaker than I was, and asked Joe for his arm.
Joe gave it me, but was thoughtful.

I, for my part, was thoughtful too; for, how
best to check this growing change in Joe, was a
great perplexity to my remorseful thoughts.
That I was ashamed to tell him exactly how I
was placed, and what I had come down to, I do
not seek to conceal; but, I hope my reluctance